The Killer eBook

We caught our breath in horror. Although we could
plainly see that Tommy was in no degree injured by
his short fall, yet we all realized that it was going
to be serious to be mixed up with a raging, snarling
beast fight of twenty-two members. When the dachshunds
should pounce on their natural prey, the medium-size
game, poor Tommy would be at the bottom of the heap.
Several even started forward to restrain the dogs,
but stopped as they realized the impossibilities.

Tommy and the ’coon hit with a thump. The
dachshunds took one horrified look; then with the
precision of a drilled man[oe]uvre they unanimously
turned tail and plunged into the tall grass. From
my elevated perch I could see it waving agitatedly
as they made their way through it in the direction
of the distant ranch.

For a moment there was astounded silence. Then
there arose a shriek of delight. The Captain
rolled over and over and clutched handfuls of turf
in his joy. The General roared great salvos of
laughter. Tommy, still seated where he had fallen,
leaned weakly against the tree, the tears coursing
down his cheeks. The rest of the populace lifted
up their voices and howled. Even Uncle Jim, who
rarely laughed aloud, although his eyes always smiled,
emitted great Ho! ho!’s. Only Mrs. Kitty,
dumb with indignation, stared speechless after that
wriggling mess of fugitives.

The occasion was too marvellous. We enjoyed it
to the full. Whenever the rapture sank somewhat,
someone would gasp out a half-remembered bit of Mrs.
Kitty’s former defences.

“Their long, sharp noses are like tweezers to
seize the game!” declaimed Charley, weakly.
[Spasm by the audience.]

“Their spatulate feet are meant for digging,”
the Captain took up the tale. [Another spasm.]

“Their bandy legs enabled them to throw the
dirt out behind them—­as they ran,”
suggested Tommy.

“If only they could have had a badger
they’d have beaten all records!” we chorused.

And then finally we wiped our eyes and remembered
that there used to be a ’coon. At the same
time we became conscious of a most unholy row in the
offing: the voice of Mithradates Antikamia.

“If you people want your ’coon,”
he was remarking in a staccato and exasperated voice,
“you’d better come and lend a hand. I
can’t manage him alone! The blame thing
has bitten me in three places already. Of course,
I like to see people have a good time, and I hope you
won’t curtail your enjoyment on my account;
but if you’ve had quite enough of those
made-in-Germany imitations, perhaps you’ll just
stroll over and see what one good American-built DOG
can do!”